Orchestrated Living
by lalalyds2
Summary: The world is a jungle of concrete and paper, yet it shares the same thing every world shares. A legend, a dynasty, a dreamer, and a song.
1. Noticing Interests

_Hi there! Just a disclaimer, I do not own Mozart in the Jungle! If I did, it'd be all Gloria, because that's how it should be. So to cope, here is the beginning of hopefully a whole series of short one-shots. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think!_

 _Enjoy._

* * *

He's decided he likes living with Gloria.

She's nice, fun even, when her face isn't scrunched up in stress and frustration from bureaucratic nonsense and red tape.

He doesn't understand how someone who walks so lyrically in high-heeled shoes can deal with such mind numbing business factors like subscribers and demographics and curtains.

Though that last one might be a hobby.

Frankly, he can't see the appeal.

Nevertheless, Gloria is a good roommate.

Housemate?

Town-housemate?

Either way, she's pleasant.

Perhaps a tad too conventional in her living habits—hummed show tunes now replace the hum of his beloved didgeridoo; and his little gatherings are just that, little gatherings, where the guests are required to keep _all_ their clothes on—but it's more than manageable.

Most nights are filled with bejeweled hands to shake and donor's cheeks to kiss and orchestras to conduct, but on the rare occasions when they are not busy, they stay in.

Late night take-out and chitty-chatting, shop talk kept to the bare minimum.

It's good, it's companionable, and he's almost proud to say he's learning more about the esteemed Gloria Windsor than just her living habits.

And then, he starts to notice.

* * *

It's little things.

She watches movies more—though never at home—and in between the texts that make the little corners of her mouth crinkle in annoyance, there are a few that keep her still.

It seems like any normal thing, but he's observant, and not averse to staring.

It's her eyes, he realizes...they brighten a little more at the mysterious messages on her phone, even as the rest of her appears nonchalant.

No one else would notice, they've got unions and breaks and budgets to worry about, but he is content to keep her secret eyes to himself.

Because, when they start to glow, chocolate eyes melt into songs.

What songs, he's not quite sure, they're too fleeting and hidden and Gloria's, but he's sure they are beautiful.

And he knows without a doubt, if her secret is revealed, those songs will stop.

So he doesn't say a word, not until her songs map out for him like notes on a page worthy of Mozart.

They haven't yet, but he can be patient.

He can keep quiet.

He can't, however, keep his eyebrows from raising at the extra wineglass in the sink.

* * *

She's seeing someone.

And not as in seeing someone for small talk and asking about their children, as in seeing someone with more than just the eyes and ears of an old friend.

As in seeing someone with the eyes and ears and lips and hands of a lover.

Not that he's physically seen this.

He's seen extra plates and extra silverware littering the usually immaculate counter, he's heard Gloria's quiet murmurs on the phone, a gentle caress of whispers he can't decipher, and he's seen a pair of black boxing gloves that he _knows_ aren't Gloria's.

It's not exactly proof, but it is evidence enough that she's got a certain someone who visits.

He decides to roam the streets more often at night, giving Gloria and her someone more room for wine and seeing each other.

If she notices, she doesn't mention it.

But her smiles—though she complains they stretch out her cheeks—widen, contrasting perfectly with her gold-spun curls.

She looks happy.

He approves.

He's happy for her too, until one night, while stealing past her room for the kitchen, he hears her utter a name that stops him cold.

Edward.

As in Edward Biben. As in board member Edward Biben. As in Edward-shark-snake-cold-ruthless-Biben.

What's worse, she'd said the name sweetly.

Suddenly, he does not approve quite so much.

* * *

She's in the kitchen, humming something hinting of Sinatra when he decides to confront her.

"Good morning, Rodrigo. Breakfast?"

She sets a plate before him, eggs and vegetables still steaming from the cream-white porcelain.

He hesitates. Gloria grins ruefully.

"Don't worry, I didn't make it."

He digs in. It's excellent.

"Delicious," he says around another mouthful.

"I'll send the cook your regards."

"Who was the cook?"

She turns to put away recently dried silverware and decidedly changes the subject.

"Do you have any plans for today other than rehearsal?"

In this instant, he is reminded of his grandmother's kitchen, her wrinkled hands on her hips as she warns him to stay out of trouble.

And this time, like every other time, he ignores the warning.

"Is Edward Biben your lover?"

He might as well have thrown a bucket of icy water in her face from the way she sputters in shock.

"Wha— _no_. Why would you even think that?"

He leans in close, eyes narrowing, studying her like an I-Spy picture book.

"You have taken quite a lot of calls from him lately," he's not accusing, this isn't accusing, he doesn't do that.

"For _work_ ," she replies, seemingly calm, but the hand putting away the sharp cutlery tightens.

He leans back.

"But so late at night?"

The hand not holding the knife opens a drawer forcefully.

He leans back further.

"Rodrigo de Susa, have you been eavesdropping on me?"

"What's this? There's no eavesdropping, I don't _eavesdrop_. I just heard a snippety of conversation last night, and I was curious. That's all. No eavesdropping."

She looks less than convinced, but finally puts the knife where it belongs.

Away.

"If you _must_ know, I was convincing Edward not to visit you today. He's determined to someday find you make a mistake and kick us both out."

The last part is tinged with bitterness, and yet all he registers is his own relief that the knife is gone.

"So, you are not interested in him," he says, just for clarification.

"Definitely not."

"So you do not dream of him in the sweet hours of night?" He teases, fingers drumming the marble counter to give tempo to his jest.

She smirks, lips in a wry twist, hands now clenching a four pronged fork.

"Believe me, the only dreams he's involved in are the ones where I get to stick him with something pointy. Maybe then I'd finally get a break from his pointing fingers."

She pauses, eyes glinting at the picture playing in her mind; Rodrigo's fingers still, subtly folding together under the counter, out of sight and out of potential harm's way.

Then she shakes the moment off, smiles sweetly at him, and focuses on returning the rest of the dishes to their assigned shelves.

She goes back to humming.

She's nowhere near any sharp pieces anymore, but Rodrigo keeps his hands under his legs.

Just in case.

* * *

She's more careful now. Nothing extra litters anything, and he hasn't heard a single whisper at any time of the day.

He's almost concerned.

He hopes she hasn't stopped seeing her someone because of him, he'd sooner find somewhere else to live than have her give up this new happiness.

Her eyes still sing though; he is relieved, and goes back to solving the mystery that is her secret someone.

However, he stops asking questions.

He spends longer evenings out and about, resolute in giving her space.

It's not fair, to feel the need to sneak around in one's own home.

So he stays out until he cannot anymore, until he's nearly crawling to bed before slipping under silken sheets and falling into the abyss of unconsciousness.

It's actually not so bad.

Dreamless sleep is refreshing.

But tonight, tonight he is tired.

* * *

He is so tired, he barely notices bumping into Pavel as he's walking in the front door and Pavel is walking out.

He stops. His eyes twitch, then blink.

Pavel.

In Gloria's home.

Pavel.

He turns around. He stares.

Pavel is still there, staring back at him.

He must be sleeping.

He pinches his own arm.

He's not sleeping.

Pavel is buttoning his rumpled shirt, smoothing his mussed hair, smiling like he's heard a private joke only he knows.

"Gloria is sleeping," there's warmth in his low voice. Too much warmth to be merely innocent. "Try to not wake her, she has an early morning tomorrow."

So much familiarity in his tone.

Rodrigo only nods.

"Have a good night, my friend," Pavel says, mouth twitching in amusement as Rodrigo's still gapes open.

He closes it with a snap as the words register.

"Yes. Yes, ok."

The door closes. Pavel disappears.

Rodrigo stands alone, his face a stone chiseled from surprise.

Then, a smile cracks, spreading slowly from one side of his mouth all the way to the other.

He's found Gloria out, he knows her secret someone, he knows it's Pavel.

What an unexpected surprise.

* * *

The day's rehearsal is a bit messy.

Edward had insisted on watching this one, so the rest of the board had been there as well. The orchestra ends up performing to an audience of eight.

Union Bob is sure to be sending his bill already.

Rodrigo wouldn't mind—his orchestra needs to be kept on its toes—if not for the self-satisfied smirk glued to Edward Biben's face.

"Impressive, maestro," he says, though sounding anything but. "However, I think your crew needs another shot of espresso."

He jerks his head in direction to a violinist. The woman is leaning her face against her instrument, glasses askew as she takes a cat nap.

"And after that rendition of Haydn, I might just need one too."

Rodrigo forces a smile, knowing Gloria relies on him to be nice. It turns to one of sincerity when he sees Pavel walking his way, telltale Starbucks tray in hand.

"Well then, it seems Pavel's timing is perfect. There you go, drink up."

He stares at the auditorium—the lights, the red velvet drapes around the stage, the now snoring violinist—anything to avoid connecting gazes with the smug businessman.

Copper strands catch his eye, Gloria's alight and glowing as Pavel hands her the caffeinated beverage.

"You are a lifesaver."

Her voice is light and appreciative, but Rodrigo knows the undertones now. He sees her dancing eyes, her fluttering lashes, her lingering smile.

No man can stand a chance against such a combination, and Pavel fares no different.

Edward follows his stare, not noticing the same significance; Rodrigo's amused focus is broken.

"She may be losing me money," Edward says, eyes drinking her in like his mouth drinks coffee. "But at least she looks good doing it."

"Pardon?"

He jerks his head in Gloria's direction; Rodrigo bristles at the motion, finding it distinctly unpleasant.

Regardless, he studies her figure.

Balancing on high heels—always the heels—she is milky alabaster poured into a dark green dress. With her hair a burning gold, she is ethereal, she is flawless, she is resplendent.

In short, she is attractive.

"See what I mean?" Edward says, interrupting Rodrigo's thoughts.

"Hmm? Oh...yeah," he answers vaguely, dazed.

Then he notices something else, something that quirks his lips.

She has yet to break Pavel's gaze, even though he's halfway across the room, their private joke continuing through silent signals and invisible smiles.

"This might pop the bubble," he says, ignoring Edward's confused look, too busy remembering Gloria's musical eyes and Pavel's messy hair and extra dishes in the sink. It's living poetry, and he's a hopeless romantic.

"But she is not interested," he finishes, smiling as he claps a hand on Edward's shoulder.

Edward is mystified.

"So? Neither am I."

He just laughs, thinking of hands clenched around pointy forks at the mere mention of Biben's name.

"Nevertheless," he says over his shoulder as he strolls off in her direction, teasing on his mind, a pleasant bounce in his step.

"She is definitely _not_ interested."


	2. Thanking An Angel

_Hi all! Here's another little one-shot that wouldn't leave me alone. It was just something I had to get off my chest because Gloria is an amazing character and receives far too little love, in my biased opinion. So I'm changing that!  
_

 _Enjoy._

* * *

He's the conductor.

Well, staying the conductor.

The Biben—the curse—did not deliver.

He's so relieved, though worried for his orchestra.

A strike means too many things.

Striking out the music, striking out the stability, striking out the money.

Not an issue for him, but there are bills to pay and families to look after.

The orchestra is his large family, their families included, and it is his responsibility to protect them.

And he's certainly tried.

Now, it's out of his hands.

It's in the hands of someone up above, he prays to the heavens that they will be kind.

* * *

He's been wandering the streets for an hour before he finally pops into a small cafe.

Not his style really, too modern, but he knows Gloria has a fondness for it.

And he really must do something for her after, how did she say it, _driving her up the walls_.

It was an accident.

So playing soccer indoors hadn't been the best idea, but that picture frame had been rather poorly hung.

He's waiting in line, listening to the symphony only coffee machines can make, when he hears a very familiar voice.

"Rodrigo."

He turns.

Confident and poised, looking perfectly out place in evening wear during the afternoon, sits Cynthia. All smiles and cheekbones and a large cello case by the round table her coffee rests on.

"Cynthia, always nice to see you. What are you doing here?"

His name is called; he grabs the paper cup before plopping down beside her.

"I'm just here to inhale caffeine before work," she tells him conspiratorially.

He raises his eyebrows in curiosity, taking a sip of coffee before remembering it's Gloria's and disgusting.

Milk.

Eugh.

"You found a job? That's wonderful! Wonderful... What is it?"

"Nothing quite so glamorous as you're imagining," she says, wry grin twisting strawberry lips. "I play for an off, off-Broadway musical. Not my first choice, but it pays the bills."

He nods. Once, twice.

Wants to say something, reassurance, but there's nothing much to say when the future is a murky looking glass that only reflects the past.

"Ah."

"What about you?" She asks, taking a long sip of her coffee.

"Not much, no. Guest conducted a few times, yeah, but mostly waiting."

"Waiting?"

"To get back to work. Real work."

Cynthia nods with deep longing as she stares at a painting on the wall.

Pointillism.

She's never been a fan.

"I know what you mean. No matter what I do, it's not the symphony."

A comfortable silence settles between them. Cynthia finishes her drink, Rodrigo occasionally sipping his and grimacing.

"You know," she suddenly says, turning from the artwork and looking him straight in the eyes, hers shining with regret.

"I could have stopped the strike. Gloria and I had thought of a good compromise, and it would have worked. But Nina did a fucking _stupid_ thing, and Gloria took it out on us."

"What?" He asks, realizing belatedly that he's missed much information of the moment that had saved his career and his artistic soul.

"That article in the newspaper, the one about redecorating her office, that was Nina. _Fucking_ stupid." She mutters, eyes flicking down.

He can't tell if it's in frustration or sadness. Maybe both.

"Did you tell her it was Nina?"

"I tried, but it's kind of hard to talk to someone when they're chewing you out."

It's quiet again, he stares at the painting Cynthia had been so focused on before.

An idyllic scene, people staring at the water in a perfect, permanent way.

He knows their shapes, knows the painting, but he also knows they're not as they appear.

A big picture created by little dots.

It's fitting, because right now he feels like he's only seeing the little smatterings of color, can't focus on the finished picture.

He needs more dots before he can piece them together.

Nina checks her watch, sighs, stands up.

"I have to go. I guess I'll see you around."

She reaches out, he holds her hand.

Softly, firmly, with conviction.

"I'll see you soon, not just around."

She smiles, turns to go, but he still hasn't let go of her hand.

"Do you blame her? Gloria?"

She shrugs.

"All I know is that we had a deal and then we didn't. Gloria said we're not the only ones who care about music, but it feels much different when she sits on the solid throne of CEO while we are scrambling for jobs."

"Interim CEO, but I understand what you're saying."

"She just doesn't know the rush and instability that comes from performing."

She leaves.

He thinks of a singer, Gloria Antoinette, who serenaded the night and now serenades nobody.

Whose music turned into paper and patrons and producing.

Silenced so others can sing instead.

He thinks she knows.

He thinks she knows all too well.

* * *

"Gloria, what happened that day?"

It's late, she's spent a long day with condescending lawyers and wants to spend the night with a long bottle of wine.

"What day?"

She's snippy, she knows it. Unapologetic, but maybe she should just skip the wine and sleep.

She's _tired_.

"The ah, lockin—out. I know what was supposed to happen during the board meeting and that it didn't. What are the facts?"

"That's pretty much it."

She doesn't mention Edward's blackmail, surely Rodrigo knows that.

Also leaves out her forced resignation in three years. Rodrigo doesn't _need_ to know that.

"Surely not all." He can tell she's leaving things bare and hidden. Why?

"All that happened was a clashing of ideas, a lockout, and then a beautiful outdoor performance."

"You came?"

"Of course."

"Of course you did. Our faithful guardian angel."

" _Interim_ guardian angel," she reminds him, though it still stings.

So many years spent doing the same job without the title, then getting the title with the reminder it's not forever.

She thought she'd get a forever soon, but no one gets that in the music industry.

Music industry. A business of losing money faster than you can raise it and kissing the hands that seek to tear it down.

Some industry.

She murmurs a good night, heads to the stairs, hand just reaching the cold railing—

"So if you are guarding us, who is guarding you?"

It's a sweet question, caring, too much behind it to deal with in one evening.

"I don't need a guard."

Soft warning, he ignores it.

She isn't surprised. Ascends the stairs.

"What about Pavel?"

Now that, that surprises her.

She stills, heeled shoe hovering over the next step.

How did he know?

Ah, but it doesn't matter.

The past needs to stay there so she can salvage a future.

It's all definitely too much to deal with in one evening.

She's _so_ tired.

"He's gone."

It's quiet and final.

And then she's gone too.

* * *

"Rodrigo, I am skiing right now."

"Right now, this very minute? That seems dangerous, talking while falling down a mountain, no?"

"Not _right now_ , right now—and I'm not _falling_ —just, what do you want?"

"Aye, Hai-lai, am I not allowed to simply say hi?"

She just waits.

"Alright, alright. I just—did Erik said anything about the council meeting?"

"We're skiing."

"Si, si I know."

A sigh.

"Just a second."

Mutterings, hushed whispers.

"Erik says he shouldn't say anything, doesn't remember it exactly, but the meeting was recorded and they have it on file somewhere."

"Gracias."

"You're welcome, now I really have to go."

"Enjoy the mountains."

"I will."

A click is her goodbye.

He hangs up too, immediately calls Michael.

"Mi-chelle, I need the minutes."

"What?"

"The minutes to the meeting."

"What meeting?"

"The board meeting, Mi-chelle! Somebody recorded it."

"Ok, give me a minute to text Sharon and I'll be right over."

"You have Sharon's number?"

"Yeah. I mean... We Snapchat, sometimes."

"Snapchat? Never mind, come over. Bien. Wait, no. Gloria's coming home early today. Meet me at that cafe."

"Cafe?"

"The popular one, green and mermaid-y."

"Starbucks? Ok, which one?"

"There's more than one?"

* * *

The Internet is amazing.

Forty-five minutes of time, snatched up and held on to and emailed as easy as a snap of the fingers.

And the Starbucks has free wifi.

He's sitting in a corner, Michael next him, both sharing a pair of earbuds.

He wonders what he will hear.

It's not so bad, he already knows the outcome.

"I want to thank you all for coming," the Biben's voice rings out.

Arrogant and victorious, it's never hard to remember why he doesn't like that man.

"Gloria, thanks for being here."

"I called the meeting."

Condescension met with Gloria's matter -of-factness, touched a hint of annoyance.

Rodrigo wants to both smile and cringe, the Biben-shark strikes hard and fast, Gloria shouldn't have to deal with that.

But she deals with it so well.

"I move that we vote to begin the search for a new chairman of the board, a search that may not take too long."

He definitely does not like that man.

"Edward, you're a shit."

He laughs, right in the cafe. Doesn't mind the staring, Gloria swearing is just so unexpected, too priceless.

"And I know you blackmailed Rodrigo de Souza into resigning."

He hadn't told her that. Intuitive lady.

"This, this is bigger than you and me. Or, the individual players. Or, the great, I repeat the _great_ Rodrigo de Souza."

His heart swells.

He could conduct a million orchestras and never find a more loyal and lionhearted boss.

"And I'm happy to step down, in three years, after we have successfully navigated our way through this difficult time."

Then it's a haze of inner politics and Gloria choosing Erik to succeed her in three years and Biben panicking, which is satisfying.

But Rodrigo starts tuning out, thinking of the sacrifice given for him.

Oh Gloria.

To give up the orchestra, her beloved child, and only have such a meager time left with them.

He had been prepared to give up conducting for two years and nine months, which would have been hell itself, but to give it up completely...

He can't even imagine.

She's a braver soul than he.

Kinder.

And so, so strong.

The orchestra, the musicians with fire in their blood and that unique stubbornness in their souls, to manage them is to herd cats.

Frustrating, endless, and not as rewarding as it should be.

Yes, he is their conductor, their stern papa.

But Gloria, Gloria is the one with the hard decisions. The one who stands tall as hate is thrown at her on all sides.

Who protects the protector?

"I must go, Mi-chelle. I shall see you soon."

"Wait, that's it? Where are you going?"

"I'm going home."

* * *

It's dark when he walks through the door.

No hummed music, no chatter from the TV, even her ancient speakers are silent.

He finds her asleep on the couch, laptop still running, probably burning a rectangular shape on her stomach from the overheating metal.

Soft affection thrums in his chest.

All the stress lines are faded in sleep, she looks peaceful.

Trying not to ruin that peace, he picks up the computer, tries to be silent as he places it on the counter.

He's unsuccessful, she wakes anyway.

She blinks once, stiffening as she sees his blurred shape, relaxes as he comes into focus.

"What time is it?" She mutters, sitting up.

"8:45."

"Oh god, I really overslept. I need to—"

"You need to rest, you deserve it."

She grins ruefully, a hand raised in effort to fix her curls.

"No rest for the wicked, as they say."

"Who says this?" He sits down beside her, holds her hand in both of his, close to his heart. "You are many things, but wicked is not one of them."

"Many people, particularly the orchestra, would heavily disagree with you right now."

"Speaking of the orchestra, I know what you did for them, for me, at the board meeting."

She opens her mouth, surprised and apprehensive, shuts it when he kisses her hand.

" _Thank you_ , Gloria. It is never said enough, but thank you."

"For what?" Her eyes gleam in the dim room, guilt and uncertainty pooling in them. "For dealing a massive blow they might not recover from, for taking away their jobs?"

"No, Gloria, no. You did no such thing. You've given them a future, a future with great potential, instead of stagnating into famed mediocrity."

He lets go of her hand for a moment, turning to grab an old, slightly battered wooden baton.

He twirls it in his fingers, takes a moment to form his next sentence.

"I used this baton for years. Not many saw it, it didn't get the recognition it ever deserved, but it is the most cherished, most valuable baton to me, because I used it the most. Because of this baton, I have been able to conduct beautiful, wondrous music."

He hands it to her.

"What—what are you doing?"

"Keep it. I give it to you."

"No... No. _No_. I can't accept this."

"I want you to have it, please."

He kisses her hand, wraps it around the baton.

"It's yours."

"I don't _deserve_ it."

The conviction in her voice squeezes his heart.

"Here is why you do. You are my, you are _our_ protector. You hold this orchestra in a way even I cannot. You know both worlds, the business and the music. You are the first CEO I've ever worked with who understands, truly understands the purpose of the orchestra. To share music with the world. And there are sacrifices that comes with that. No one knows it better than you and me."

She's puzzled for a moment, comprehension flares in her eyes till quiet resignation replaces it.

"You heard that part."

A kiss to her palm again.

"There is so much gratitude I haven't voiced, Gloria. But this is the most important, I _trust_ you. With this orchestra. I trust you with it as much as I trust myself. We have different ways of going about things, but I know that all you do, you do for us. For the music. You are a part of my heart, and a part of my family."

She stares at the baton, looks up at him, the music in her gaze playing notes of gratitude and something else just for him.

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

She nods, and he understands the many nuances in the fluid motion.

One more kiss, the forehead this time.

"Goodnight, my friend, get some rest. You most definitely deserve it."


	3. Sands, Sun, and Surprises

Sands, Sun, and Surprises

* * *

Thomas' apartment is always a touch too cold for his liking.

Not ideal for his didgeridoo.

But his hermano was being generous enough to let him stay at his loft, so he isn't going to complain.

Too much, anyway.

But soon he is going to have the place to himself, as Thomas and Gloria are going away together for a week, and he is taking care of _both_ their homes.

He's happy for them.

Though they hadn't asked for his opinion, he thought they were _adorable_.

Universe willing, they'd stay together. Preferably forever.

But regardless of his personal feelings, they were trusting him with their houses, so he would try his best to be responsible. No parties, no ladies, not even Hayley. Well…

It'll be fine, he'll be good.

It will certainly be nice to be alone after his rehearsals with the children's orchestra.

Ah, the children…

He so loves their enthusiasm, their passion for the music, their excitement over their instruments.

If only they could _play_.

But he isn't being fair. He keeps comparing them to Rivera's orchestra, and they were more youth than children. They had more training. His children, well, they have vivacity.

A young girl's flute _shrieks_.

Indeed, they have vivacity.

"Rodrigo," a voice chirps, catching his attention.

Gloria. In a red dress, keys dangling from an outstretched hand, eyes wary as if the second she hands them to him, her house will implode.

"I just have a few plants, remember, and they really _do_ need water every day, and make sure you— "

"It will be fine, Gloria, I've lived in your house before." Rodrigo assures her, a calming smile on his face.

She only looks skeptical. Then she notices the children he's attempting to teach, she pastes on a smile.

Fake smile or not, she radiates warmth. They soak it up, quietly staring at her and her _bouncy_ hair. For once, they listen to Rodrigo as he leads them into a sonatina.

They try to impress her. Her smile and applause makes them beam.

But then she's got to leave, doing secondhand upkeep that Rodrigo does not understand at all, and the children visibly _deflate_ once she's gone.

Julia, his little flutist, hops to his side, Beethoven completely forgotten.

"Who was that lady?" She asks, eyes bedazzled and still reflecting the brightness of Gloria's smile.

"Gloria Windsor, the CEO of the big, grown-up orchestra."

"She looks like a princess." She says, nodding her head sharply, as if to prove her statement as fact.

Rodrigo grins, tussling her hair and gently pushing her back to her chair.

"Nah, she looks like a queen. _You_ look like a princess."

Then he clears his throat, trying to get these young puppy-children-musicians' attention.

"Alright everyone, let's take it from the top…"

* * *

"Roatan is quite lovely, isn't it my dear?" Thomas shouts from his straw chair, open coconut in hand, Hawaii print shirt decorated brightly. The minute they'd reached the small Honduran island, he'd gone positively _tourist_.

"My hair is an _utter_ disaster." Gloria mutters as she sits down beside him, a grin poking its way onto her face even as she tries to hide it.

"What does it matter? No one's here but us, and you're wearing a _hat_." He says matter-of-factly, completely unsympathetic. He only laughs as she glares daggers at him.

"You look beautiful, as always." He says after a second, and she immediately brightens, as sunny as the blue sky day. And then she's up and out of her chair, affectionate as she sits on his lap to kiss him.

"That's much better." She says against his mouth.

He makes a mental note to compliment her more often.

It's never a stretch, when it comes to her.

And the result is _quite_ enjoyable.

* * *

Thomas' apartment is boring and lonely without people, Rodrigo's decided.

The big, open rooms are perfect for acoustics, but less so for living sounds.

He needs real voices, or organic music, or _something_.

Anything other than this unbearable quiet and clinically clean apartment.

He needs it to change.

But he promised he wouldn't do anything to the apartment this time…

He wants to throw paint all over the painfully white room. Bring life and color to it.

He takes a walk instead.

* * *

They're dancing.

Lit by the stars and the bonfire, the restaurant's band crooning to them as they sway together.

It's peaceful and she's _happy_ , and she never ever wants to leave this place or Thomas' arms.

She does miss New York though, misses it like a dear friend. Doesn't matter whether she's been gone a day or a year or simply a week. New York is in her blood, and she misses her orchestra-child.

She doesn't miss the stress though. Not one bit.

But she really needed to get back to work…

"You're worrying about the orchestra again." Thomas said, reading her thoughts.

"I'm not."

His look is less than amused. She just grins sheepishly.

"Who would I be if I wasn't worrying about the orchestra?" She asks, only half teasingly. His smile is fond, and softer than usual.

"You would be Gloria Windsor, doing equally great things, even if it isn't with the orchestra."

He twirls her before she can collect her thoughts enough to answer, spinning her back in, just to pull her close, kissing her cheek and whispering quietly to her.

"Relax, darling. You've been running yourself ragged over them lately. They'll still be there when we get back, let's just enjoy tonight."

She sighs, but in acceptance. A playful twinkle dances across her eyes, and Thomas suddenly feels the urge to _blush_.

"Okay." She says finally. He nearly gapes at her easy acquiescence.

"That's it? ' _Okay_ ,' that's all you're going to do?" He asks. Her grin is _**wicked**_.

"Not hardly."

Then she's pressing closer and whispering sin in his ear.

He blushes.

* * *

When Gloria had secretly been seeing Pavel, Rodrigo had done his best to leave them be, exploring the city instead of being in her townhouse. Now he'd gotten used to his city adventures and had made a habit of it.

You couldn't really get to know the soul of New York City unless you walked its streets and corners and the places less traveled.

Rodrigo loved those places. There was a certain, hidden kind of music in those empty spaces.

A personal performance, different for every person walking down that street.

Today, it's rather quiet. Color is muted, and nothing seems _alive_.

He's nearly disappointed.

Then a noise hits his ear.

Bright and loud and happy.

He turns. He sees it. He _grins_.

* * *

The vacation is over and gone, they're back in New York, and it's like nothing and everything has changed.

"I swear, every time I leave, they make a new building and completely pause traffic." Thomas grumbles, already missing the sand and sun and warmth of the Caribbean. Compared to New York's nipping wind and gray concretes, Roatan is heaven.

Still, it does feel good to be back. City and street music is back in his bones, instead of calypso drums and Spanish love songs.

He's ready to go home with Gloria, possibly rechristen his apartment with a romp in the sheets and then a good long nap. And then perhaps _another_ nap. Or maybe they should just keep it as one long, continuous sleep.

No matter how little the time change, jet lag is a complete and utter bitch.

And of course Gloria is bright-eyed and bushy tailed as they walk back into his apartment, her green wrap dress too crisp and alluring to have been through their hellish plane-ride. And yet it had.

That proves it. Gloria is magic. How unfair.

As they walk in, the skyline from the window greeting them home, they're also welcomed by a… _barking noise_.

A puff ball of fur and sniffing runs at them, circling their heels.

Thomas **pales**.

Rodrigo couldn't have. He _shouldn't_ have. He **did**.

It's a _puppy_. Eugh.

Gloria is ecstatic, kneeling even in heels, cooing over the mutt, its tail wagging in excited bliss as she pets it and positively _gushes_.

Rodrigo, hearing the commotion, comes and hugs his hermano, clapping his back as he pulls away, his smile illustrating just how happy he is to have them home.

"Welcome back to the Americas, my friends!" He crows. Thomas is still aghast.

"There's a **dog**. In _my_ apartment. _**Why**_?"

Rodrigo scratches the back of his neck, both contrite and unrepentant as he shrugs.

"He has a musical bark." As if that explains it all.

Thomas is not at all satisfied.

"When is it going to leave?" He asks, making sure to say _when_ , and not ask _if_. Because there was no chance in _hell_ he is going to keep a _dog_.

Now it's Rodrigo's turn to gasp, in tandem with Gloria.

"We can't give him back!" combines with "But he's so precious!"

Gloria cuddles the dog closer to her, being very obvious that the pup totally has her heart in its paws. She glares at Thomas and shields the dog, as if she can protect it from his clear distaste for it.

"Cantante's my furry hermano, I can't give him up." Rodrigo says, nearly pouting.

Thomas sighs in full exasperation.

"You should have thought about that _before_ you got him." He says stubbornly.

"Thomas, you can't expect Rodrigo to give this cutie up," Gloria says, still holding the oblivious and happy dog in her arms. "He needs a home."

"Well he won't find one here." Thomas is staunch and firm.

He is _not_ keeping a pet, especially not a dog!

"Fine," Gloria says, suddenly calm and unworried.

Thomas gets nervous.

"Rodrigo, you can keep him at _my_ house."

Rodrigo's smile is nothing short of joyous. With a kiss on Gloria's cheek and a clap on Thomas' shoulder, he leaves them the apartment before Thomas can object, Cantante running behind him. The door shuts quietly, and Thomas sighs again.

"If Rodrigo didn't have gray in his beard, I'd swear he was a _child_."

Gloria just grins, winding her arms around his neck, grinning and entirely too pretty for him to focus on being put out.

"You have to admit; the puppy is _really_ cute."

"I admit nothing." He says grumpily.

Her fingers find their way to his still sticking up hair, scratching soothing circles on his head. His eyes close at the lovely sensation, and against his will he hums in satisfaction.

"You'll come to like him, I'm sure of it." She says, her sultry voice both teasing and promising.

He stares in her fathomless, caramel coffee eyes. Affection swells in him like the crystal seas they'd just been flying over, and he knows he's a goner.

He'll do anything, so long as she keeps looking at him that way. It's a look that can sail ships, a look that can soothe a thousand storms, it's a look he wants to keep with him forever.

He still pretends as if he's thinking things over, as if he's not willing to buy her a hundred dogs, just so long as she's happy and happy with _him_.

" _Maybe_ …" He says slowly, slyly. "I think I may need some convincing though."

She smiles at him, half in exasperated fondness, and half in something so beautiful it steals all of his breath.

"Okay."

And then she convinces him.


End file.
